Soren on the wings of a dove.

That was the worst Soren Kierkegaard pun I've come up with today at work. I've been obsessively wikipedia-ing him all day. It's what I do when I'm not wandering around the AIDS and psychiatry hallways/"checking the mail". What a sad, strange little man that Soren was. Unfortunately, with most things I obssesively gather information about, it's dried me up and left me feeling empty inside. Plus, he's not even funny. And I'm tired of people not being funny. And I'm tired of being at work. Yes, I think I'll walk home today.
What is a poet? An unhappy person who conceals profound anguish in his heart but whose lips are so formed that as sighs and cries pass over them they sound like beautiful music.